All Sherlock's fault
by I'm Nova
Summary: There's a perfectly logical explanation to s3/TAB Tie Hell. It's also embarrassing as hell. And like most things in Mycroft's life, he blames his brother for it.


Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I asked around and despite having been reassured, I'm still not 100% sure it could happen...but the idea wouldn't leave me alone.

All Sherlock's fault

As with too many things to count in Mycroft's life, this was completely Sherlock's fault. Seriously, if his sibling wasn't such an exhibitionist, Mycroft would have found a way to solve this, too. If Magnussen could boast an overabundance of anything, it was enemies. Mycroft could have picked anyone who met the man, however briefly, and made a convincing case they *could have* been the murderer...if they'd arrived to a dead body.

Just like his brother to act in front of a whole fucking platoon. All to avoid so much as the shadow of a suspicion to fall on his doctor, obviously. Mycroft couldn't exactly blame him for indulging in sentiment when he'd eventually caved in himself, but he did wish that his brother had found a more worthy object. Gregory would never have gone ahead with marrying someone else out of sheer spite.

How was he supposed to fix it? (And who do you think would be blamed for it?) They had to at least pretend that the UK's justice system protected everyone, no matter how much Mycroft wished he could have the option of proscription...the original, Roman way, "this man can be murdered without consequence if caught in the nation". Lady Smallwood would have signed that order for Magnussen with particular pleasure, too. Oh well. The good old days were gone. Enter the messy, hypocritical reality.

The night before his brother's "exile" - and wasn't that Pharisaic, claiming that they had no death penalty and letting others do the deed for them – Mycroft had never felt more broken.

Enter Gregory. God knew he didn't deserve his companion, but the DI had glanced at him and immediately taken charge. Most people would have suggested some tender loving care...and most people didn't understand Mycroft one bit.

With Gregory in Dom mode, Mycroft didn't have to make decisions, or wonder if he'd made the right choice, or even – on the best nights – think at all. He could follow simple instructions and be showered in the praise he so rarely got. The best treat in the universe.

Tonight, Gregory took things one step further, grabbing a bunch of soft silk ties and weaving intricate knots around his lover's wrists and ankles. Even if he wanted to, Mycroft couldn't have misbehaved. As it was, he had only to lie there and add his stuttered thanks to the running commentary his Dom kept up.  
"You submit so beautifully" earned a full body flush, and "You're perfect for my pleasure, My" a soft shudder.

As annoyed by nicknames as he usually was, Mycroft couldn't deny that he adored the way his lover turned an endearment into a claim...or was it the reverse?

With his partner working to bring – and keep – him out of his mind, there was no way Mycroft could continue to mope. He might have failed his brother, family, nation and even God (they'd never had a talk, but pretty much everyone was disappointed in him sooner or later), but so long as his love adored him, all of them were, as far as he was concerned, temporarily deleted.

Gregory had kissed him all over, prepared him – slowly, until his sub was begging incoherently – and, finally, brought him to an explosive climax. Knots untied, Mycroft still found himself in the circle of his lover's arms. Exhaustion winning out, he fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

As much as the politician wished so, time wouldn't stop for anyone. Hence why, the following day, he awoke – oddly late for him – to an empty bed, Gregory undoubtedly already at the Yard, and his brother still due for a trip to hell...err, Serbia, but his brain considered it kind to skip the middle ground.

Mycroft got ready, moves robotic. As much as he didn't like the situation, he wouldn't let his brother leave alone. Before his mind could start berating him for everything he should have been able to do in a perfect world, his hands slipped to the bed and he blindly grasped one of the ties he'd been bound in the night before. Let this be his one reminder that he hadn't yet disappointed Gregory. One person in the world loved Mycroft for the man he was.

Picking up the Watsons was an unpleasant duty, but he couldn't deny his brother his last minutes with John, however unworthy the man was. If the man didn't put his foot down, it wasn't Mycroft's duty to kick his wife off the limo either, no matter how sorely tempted he was. The couple had no sense of propriety, truly.

He should have gone with his instincts – because the accident? His brother's fault, again. Mycroft wouldn't have needed his lover's support in the first place, nor been late or had any witnesses – especially malicious witnesses like Mrs. Watson – if not for Sherlock.

When Mary Watson's hateful giggle was even louder than the vanishing echo of the leaving plane, Mycroft turned to glare at her. So, she'd won. It didn't mean that she had any right to be quite so obscenely happy.

Only, Mary was pointing...at him. And John's jaw almost hit the pavement. What the hell? Mycroft looked downwards and...oof.

His mind had subconsciously been seeking more of Gregory's comfort than he had meant to. Sure, he could blame bad luck, but he knew it wasn't just that. He'd 'accidentally' picked, of all the ties bunched on the bed, the one with an embroidered lining. Embroidered with a naked Greg, but for a red slip with silver fur trimmings, in a cheeky pose.

The wind – made worse by the leaving plane- had exposed said lining, if only partially. Not the face, thank God, he didn't need to give his companions any weapons, but the lower parts.

Mycroft gave himself points for living always prepared. The way his umbrella was always at the ready, to protect him from inclement weather or attackers, he always had a spare tie. Without a word, he dashed inside the car, changed ties, and was about to come up with an excuse for what they'd seen, when a text distracted him from his guests.

It couldn't be. The man was dead.

Oh well. All his colleagues would see that only one man could deal with such a resuscitated threat. Thankfully, that person's plane couldn't be too distant yet.


End file.
